"Zombies," Blair scoffed, having recovered sufficiently from her fright and their mad dash to attempt skepticism and even a little Chuck Bass-themed mockery. Her lips remained slightly parted as she tried--and failed--to follow it up with a single cutting remark in response to his outlandish suggestion. He sounded crazy, but what they had just experienced was even crazier. Feeling rather deflated, Blair closed her mouth once more and busied herself with adjusting her hair which had half-fallen from its formerly immaculate chignon in her scramble out of the taxi.
The idea of being somewhere familiar--even if it was a marginally palatable bistro--and off the street was appealing. Blair hurried past Chuck's outstretched hand into the restaurant, relieved at the sound of the door closing firmly behind them. She hurriedly scanned the room, but detected no signs of anything amiss. It seemed the wait staff had cleaned up and then cleared off. As Chuck fiddled with his phone, Blair inspected herself. She had sustained a few bruises, but the only real damage was to her dress; the hem was ripped in two spots.
"Eleanor's going to kill me," she said with a sigh, patting the ruined silk as if it were her distraught designer mother that she was consoling. At the mention of Eleanor, an unwelcome thought began to take shape in her mind.
"I'm going to call Dorota," she announced casually, with a forced calmness. Bringing her phone to her ear, she pressed the two button and waited, only the nervous biting of her lower lip giving her away. A few moments of silence later and she pulled the phone away again, only to try another number. Eventually, she gave up and silently slipped the phone back into her tiny evening bag. She stared down at the ground hard, trying not to panic. She was not going to lose it again, Blair told herself sternly.